


Island for Two

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk finally visits Jake on his island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Island for Two

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while back, but I guess I should post it here, in a more read-able format.
> 
> This is sans temporal difficulties because I always seem to write things right before an update renders the current situation implausible.

“…Good…show…” He says, under your weight and on the ground. He’s panting now, his face slightly flushed. You find it to be a bit adorable, like his eagerness to test you in fisticuffs. He’d tried his best, fists raised, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and ready to box you like a fucking kangaroo. However, he would get no such satisfaction from sparring with you. Your lightning-quick movements allowed you to dodge every punch and kick he threw. You let him continue trying to hit you; you found it rather entertaining. When you got tired of watching him struggle, you pinned him to the ground.

Jake English was no match for one Dirk Strider, of course.

You let him up, rising from the grass you two wrestled in. You’re on English’s island, the warm sun shining and a salt-tinted breeze blowing. Behind you, the fauna from the jungle you just walked out of make themselves heard. In front of you is a cliff with a sharp drop leading to foaming sea waves. Jake sits up in the grass.

“I’ll beat you yet, Strider.” He declares, smiling.

“I’d like to see you try.” You automatically retort.

You sit beside him, and for a moment both of you savor the pleasant atmosphere. This is probably one of the only times you’ve ever seen Jake settle down. He’s always moving, whether it be sprinting through the hot, humid island and exploring every inch of it or fidgeting with his hands and shaking his leg while sitting. This rare sight is put to a halt when Jake suddenly springs up and exclaims,

“Round two!”

You spend the rest of the afternoon doing nothing short of kicking Jake English’s ass. He’s feisty, to say the least. He charges at you, attempting a cinematic uppercut only to come in contact with thin air. A confused look crosses his face only to be replaced by a shocked one when you have his arms restrained behind him, you foot on his back and his face on the ground.

“Fucking hell,” He mutters, cheek in the dirt.

The losses don’t seem to get to him, though. He’s on his feet in a second as soon as you let go.

“Put ‘em up!” Jake demands with a big goofy grin below determined eyes. His resilience is endearing, you decide.

“Nah,” You reply. “We better get back before we can’t see jack shit.” It’s sunset, and you wouldn’t want to trek though the rainforest in the dark. You’re sure a number of creatures from the bowels of the Underworld reside there. He looks disappointed, but nods when he realizes it’s the sensible thing to do.

He leads you back to his home, babbling about his various adventures. You’re quiet, but respond with the occasional snarky comment. He reacts by laughing or getting flustered. You’re not sure which you enjoy more.

You finally reach Jake’s house (if you can call it that; in all actuality you’re not sure what to call it), and you’re both sweaty, coated in grime, and coated in mosquito bites.

“Damn, English. We stink high to heaven.” You remark.

Jake directs you to the bathroom and after you’re done washing off the day’s remnants, he goes in for his turn. As you walk out, you internally grimace at the amount of dirt caked on his boots, which has consequently resulted in a track of muddy shoeprints throughout his abode. You follow them, and they lead upstairs to the chamber that is Jake’s room. You look around at his film-covered wall, admiring some of the finer ones. There is a distinct lack of animated movies, and you make a mental note to fix that. As you scan each poster, you wonder where all of Jake’s “cerulean babes” are stashed. You question is answered as you notice a small corner of the room completely dominated by blue. A few were movie posters, like Avatar and an X-Men shot featuring Mystique. The majority of them were goddamn borderline porno-fucking-graphic print-outs of azure women. Some gentleman he is indeed. You think you’ll never understand his fascination with them. You look around some more, taking in every detail of his room. His skulls are organized on a shelf, save for a few lying around. His guns are littered around as well, presumably to allow for easy access in case of emergency. Either that or the boy hasn’t heard of the concept of cleaning up. Jake bounds in with seemingly endless energy, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, still soaking wet. He flings his towel onto the bed, which, amusingly, has the same cryptid-adorned pattern.

“It’s movie time!” Jake tells you.

“Hold up English. No self-respecting man would initiate a movie session like that.” You reply.

“Like what?” He looks down at himself, seeming to find nothing wrong. He looks at you, perplexed.

You walk over to the bed and toss the towel at his face. “Dry yourself off.” You instruct him.

It’s almost pitiful, how Jake dries himself. He runs the towel through his hair once and calls it good. He immediately runs past the bed, dropping his towel on it once more, and makes a beeline for the movie shelf. But before he can reach the shelf, you grab his arm.

“What?” He asks, looking at you.

“Sit down,” You say. “You can’t even fuckin’ dry yourself right.”

“Hey I dry myself just fine!” He protests.

“Sure you do,” The sarcasm drips from your voice as you push down on his shoulders, making him sit on his bed. He begrudgingly stays there, pouting. You pick up the towel and properly dry his hair. You move down to his arms and shoulders, wiping away as much water as possible.

“Done.” You take the towel away and Jake dashes towards his movies. He rummages through the collection. You hope he doesn’t choose Avatar. You’re not in the mood to see blue space furries hopping across the screen only to be slaughtered by the cruel hand of man. Tidiness is, unfortunately, not Jake’s strong point. He messily places the unwanted movies on the carpet. After thoroughly desecrating the shelf like some sort of tomb, he pulls out the fruit of his labor: a DVD of War Horse. You eyes widen behind your shades.

“I thought you might like this movie, since you like horses and all that.” He tells you, holding up the box in all its glory. He’s breathless from searching.

“You thought of me, Jake? I’m touched.” You mockingly feign expression. In all honesty, you really are touched, but you’re not about to announce it to him. It’d ruin your image.

“Oh shut up,” he replies jokingly, giving your arm a light punch. The two of you run downstairs to the living room, which has a large TV and a couch separated by a coffee table. Jake pops in the DVD as you sit down on the couch.

“This is a real emotional roller coaster, chap! I hope to see some manly Strider tears cascading down your face.” He devilishly smiles.

“One can only hope for impossible things, Jake.” You coolly inform him.

“We’ll see about that.” He gets up from kneeling. “I’ll get some food while the previews are running.”

Jake leaves and returns with bags of various snack foods, which you assume is basically your dinner. He throws himself onto the couch, next to you, and presses play.

War Horse, is in fact, an emotional roller coaster. Watching Joey the horse survive through World War I with the loss of his numerous owners is simultaneously heart-wrenching and inspiring. You sit stoically and watch, but Jake restlessly shifts in his seat throughout the whole movie. At the end, you’re not bawling, but it seems like Jake is dangerously close to doing so. He’s sniffling, and has taken off his glasses to wipe his eyes. You’ll admit, you did shed a minimal number of tears over the trials the poor horse was forced to face. Good thing your shades covered them from Jake’s view.

Afterwards, the two of you head upstairs to go to bed. Scouring his hellish island only to be hit with a heartfelt movie really takes a toll on a guy. You offer to sleep on the floor, and be kept company by Jake’s weaponry, skulls, and questionable filth. Jake adamantly contradicts you and pulls you into his bed, which is, luckily, large enough for two fifteen-year olds.

It’s… awkward, to say the least. Sure, the bed’s big enough, but Jake is in your personal space like a moth to fire. Well, being on an island would be pretty lonely, you suppose. That or you’d develop a lack of common courtesy. Either way, you’re inches away from Jake’s back. You breathe in his scent, which is not quite as strong as the jungle’s, but not too much like his technology-advanced shelter’s. There’s a sunroof in his room, over his bed. You can detect the faint glow of lights from outside his house, but they’re not like city lights. You can actually see the stars and moon in the sky. It feels weird, seeing them clearly without the blaring traffic and skyscrapers.

Jake suddenly rolls over, and his face is the one only a short distance away. He’s still awake, which may or may not have made it more awkward. You look into his eyes, which are a more vibrant green without his glasses. He can’t see yours, however. Your shades are still on, and he didn’t judge you when you asked to keep them on. You’re tempted to remove them to get a better look at Jake’s eyes. You hold fast to your principle of never taking them off in another person’s presence (other than Cal, of course; you trust him with things like that). Jake doesn’t say anything; he merely observes you. He studies you thoughtfully.

You don’t say anything either. It would be a straight-up sin to interrupt the silence. Jake furrows his brow once and finally speaks.

“Hey, Strider…” He begins.

“Right here.” You keep your voice even.

“Right. I think we ought to talk about, uh, things…”  
“Like what sort of things?”

“Like, feelings. Feelings things.”

You don’t comment and let him continue.

“Okay, so you’re my best bro and all…” He tells you slowly.

Dear lord. You’ve always dreaded this: the conversation where Jake English would reject your sorry ass. Well, you knew it would happen sooner or later. You just can’t believe it’s happening while you’re in his fucking bed. Talk about irony. Still, you listen to what he has to say even though you might as well resign yourself to tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and afternoon soaps for the rest of your life.

“…and you’re a great pal to chum around with.”  
Why is he beating around the bush with this ‘bullshit? If he’s going to friendzone you (and you’re 100% sure he will) there’s no point in sugar-coating it. You suppose it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, letting a lady down softly. Only it feels like he just dumped a thousand-pound boulder on you instead.

“But I’ve noticed you harbor some feelings for me. You know; as more than friends. Er, romantic feelings.”

You disgust him, don’t you? Not only are you a fucking weirdass with your robots and puppets and horses, you also skeeve him the fuck out with your feelings. You’re a disgrace. You consider taking one of English’s guns from the floor and shooting yourself with it. It’d be a hell of a lot easier than listening to your bro reject you.

“…and to be honest, I’m not quite sure what to think of them,” He looks away, carefully planning his next line.  
You wish you were one of your robots. You could erase this from your memory, or dismiss your actions as a simple malfunction from your programming. Or you could just turn yourself off and never turn on again. Anything to avoid that fact that you’ll never be over your bro, even if he does say no. You’re hopeless.

Jake’s eyes flick back to your shades.

“I… think…”

“Yes?” You ask in the most nonchalant manner you can muster. You try to keep up your façade but your mouth feels like you’ve been snacking on cotton balls. And to top it off, your heart is doing parkour in your chest.

“That…maybe… I reciprocate them.” He finishes.

If a Strider ever suffered a heart attack, then yours would have taken the cake. The whole fucking bakery, even.

“What?” You ask quietly, shocked.

“I said—”

“I know what you said. I…just…” You’re at a loss for words. Not cool. Not cool in the least.

“Can’t believe it?” Jake offers.

“…Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. For quite some time, actually. And… remember the conversations we had? If you were a female we’d be in a hypothetical relationship? I started to wonder: is gender really that important? Does someone have to be a girl in order for me to like them? And I’ve come to the conclusion that gender isn’t important at all when it comes to love, now is it? Uh, what I’m trying to say is: I really like you, so, um, will you go out with me…?”

You take some time to digest.

You’re silent.

Jake’s developing a concerned look.

“Hey, are you okay…?”  
You suddenly burst out laughing and Jake practically jumps out of the bed.

“What in blazes…?!”

“Yes,” You force out between chuckles, “A thousand times yes,”  
Pretty soon he’s laughing too. You both are in a fit of laughter under the covers. It’s absurd, you two giggling like morons late at night. Normally, you’d be worrying about maintaining your composure, but you’re just too happy; you’re happier than you’ve been in a while. 

And for once, you don’t feel so lonely.


End file.
